


things you said

by SherlockToYourJohn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockToYourJohn/pseuds/SherlockToYourJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow they’ve managed to prove that the words left unspoken are the loudest and quietest things in the world. But they’re both blind or stubborn or both and they are two paths that might, one day, be able to meet, if the planets are lined up just right and you wish on as many shooting stars as you can and maybe some airplanes too, because if you squint they look the same. If destiny allows it. If you believe in that sort of thing. Which, you know, Dean is sort of starting to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. things you said at one a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on that ask meme making it's rounds on tumblr. This may turn in to something of a series of sorts. Or it may not. We'll see. I hope you enjoy!

It’s late or it’s early, depending on who you ask. The inside of Dean’s mouth tastes like whiskey and gunpowder, his tongue feels like sand. The words rolling between his teeth are gritty and harsh, and his jaws aches to grind them down to nothing so they can’t hurt anyone, especially himself. _I need you. I want you. I’ll break you. I can’t have you._ The air in the bunker is too thick, too close, and Dean needs to scream but it’s locked in his throat. He slumps lower in the armchair and rubs a thumb over his brow.

You’re drooling two feet away from him, slumped across one of the tables, trench coat wrinkled and stained in places and the sight of rust-dried blood is enough to turn Dean’s stomach. Acid burns his bones and his fingers twitch, starting to reach for you before he clenches his jaw and wraps both hands tighter around the neck of a beer bottle. Your wings are broken and the feathers are singed and you never used to sleep but here we are, halfway between human and man and it makes Dean fucking pissed to know it was his fault you fell fast and hard from grace and it makes him more fucking pissed to feel heat prick behind his eyes at the thought.

You shift and groan in your sleep, and Dean sighs, pushing himself to his feet and setting the beer down by your elbow.

“Cas, hey,” Dean says, voice gruff. He swallows glass and grabs your shoulder, flesh not quite warm or cold beneath his fingers. “Come on, time for bed.” He pretends the words, simple and harmless, don’t burn his mouth. You pretend that they don’t make your heart, close to beating, feel warm.

You look up at him, blue burning into green, and blink at the shine in his eyes. Dean clears his throat and doesn’t let go of your shoulder. You don’t say what you’re both thinking: you’re an angel, you don’t need to sleep. Because that’s not exactly true anymore, is it?

You’re not an angel, but you’re not really anything else either. You’re running on stolen juice and exhaust fumes, fighting a restless fight for a broken man and to be honest, you’re tired. So you nod and let him pull you to your feet and you don’t say anything as he leads you down the hall to his own bedroom by your elbow, stripping the trench coat on the way, and you don’t say anything as he pulls you out of the suit you’ve made your own for years now and you don’t say anything as he tucks you into his bed and molds himself to your back and tucks his nose under your ear and you definitely don’t say anything when you feel something hot and wet drip onto your neck as his body trembles because sometimes there isn’t anything you can say at one a.m. except this: you are so tired.


	2. things you said too quietly

5.

The first time it happened, it was like nothing at all. If there’s anything worth dying for, Dean Winchester certainly isn’t it. But you cut your own skin and bled for him. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. You were still a soldier then, with a stick up your ass the size of Canada. But you were there and then you weren’t, in a flash of white and Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in destiny but he was starting to believe in you.

4.

Assbutt was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, but Dean was too busy watching the devil wear his brother like a Halloween costume to notice. Then he snapped his fingers and you were a mess of red and Dean was mostly scared, but he couldn’t help the trickle of despair that leaked through his chest.

3.

The third time was different. Dean stood over you and called you a child, but the words were meant for himself. You stopped just short of begging for forgiveness, and redemption isn’t a thing Dean has ever been promised. Then you were gone, replaced by a writing mass of black so dark it made him feel dirty just breathing the same air as you. You walked into that reservoir and never came back, but he held on to that ugly tan coat just in case. The words were there, this time, the ones he couldn’t say. But they were there. So instead he called you a son of a bitch and cried when no one was looking and bled where they couldn’t see. He drowned in whiskey and sorrow and took you back the second he found you because, really, there was no other option.

2.

The last time but certainly not _the_ last time, since this business is a risky one. But the last time, Dean was still too late to save you. Not that it surprised anyone, least of all Dean. He used the same blade she drove through your chest to send her wherever it is the feathery freaks go when you gank them. The blade was still wet with your blood when he plunged it through her stomach and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel good and awful at the same time. Your skin was warm for once, and your name was bitter on his tongue and you were dead. You were dead- human dead. Dead dead dead and it was Dean’s fault, again and again and again and if it weren’t for Gadreel, you wouldn’t have come back because humans don’t always get second chances, not like the Winchesters. If it weren’t for Gadreel, Dean would be swallowed by the hole in his gut and the mountain of guilt sitting on his chest and this huge, stupid amount of want and need and love growing in his throat. He told you to never do that again, and he meant it. Those words, rough with relief and shock and more relief, were loud and clear but the ones underneath- _don’t leave me, I need you, I love you, stay with me_ \- they were too quiet, or you weren’t listening, or you didn’t couldn’t wouldn’t believe them but they were there.

1.

The whispered prayers, the voiceless longing, the lingering stares. They are all words, spoken too quietly or not enough or not at all. Somehow one is always looking away when the other is wearing their heart on their sleeve. Somehow the signals are crossed and eyes are crossed and fingers are crossed, hoping the other will live through the damn night because they’ve come too far and lasted too long to lose each other now. Somehow they’ve managed to thoroughly fuck everything up and fix it all at once. The words are there, in the hand on the knee or the elbow or the back of the neck, resting just on the tips of their tongues or perhaps just underneath, where they’re less likely to spill out accidentally. Somehow they’ve managed to prove that the words left unspoken are the loudest and quietest things in the world. But they’re both blind or stubborn or both and they are two paths that might, one day, be able to meet, if the planets are lined up just right and you wish on as many shooting stars as you can and maybe some airplanes too, because if you squint they look the same. If destiny allows it. If you believe in that sort of thing. Which, you know, Dean is sort of starting to.


End file.
